THE   WOMAN   WITH 
;  -  :  EMPTY  HANDS  .  •  ! 


UC-NRLF 


The  Woman  With  Empty  Hands 


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THE    WOMAN    WITH 
EMPTY    HANDS 

The  Evolution  of  a  Suffragette 


FRONTISPIECE 

i  \-t  O  - 


New  York 

Dodd,  Mead  and  Company 
1913 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY 
THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 


To 

MRS.   PANKHURST 
AND    HER   DAUGHTERS 


259929 


The  Woman  With  Empty  Hands 


"  How  did  you — you  of  all  women — 
ever  become  a  Suffragette?" 

The  words,  in  tones  of  sad  indigna- 
tion, were  flung  into  my  face  at  a  street 
corner  by  a  friend  I  had  not  seen  for 
years,  and  his  reproaching  eyes  and  the 
entire  pose  of  his  lank  body  said  what 
his  tongue  was  too  polite  to  utter — that 
he  was  cruelly  disappointed  in  me;  that 
I  had  fallen  in  his  esteem  and  carried 
down  with  me  many  of  his  cherished 
ideals. 

He  was  a  Southern  gentleman  of  the 
old  school,  chivalrous  and  elderly,  and 
i 


:  i'tH:E.WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

I,  once  a  respected  and  admired  young 
friend,  now  stood  with  my  character  dis- 
played in  glaring  colours  at  a  wind- 
swept curb  on  lower  Broadway,  doing 
my  humble  duty  for  the  Great  Cause, 
crying  out  to  passers-by:  "  *  The  Woman 
Voter'! — here.  Buy  a  '  Voter'?  Votes 
for  Women!"  and  offering  the  sheet 
with  an  ingratiating  smile.  Not  recog- 
nising him  at  the  moment  I  had  ad- 
dressed him  unawares — of  all  men  I 
should  have  chosen  to  avoid,  for  I  knew 
in  advance  what  I'd  be  likely  to  get 
from  him! 

"  You, ,"  calling  me  by  my 

maiden  name,  "  to  be  doing  this  on 
the  street!  Your  father's  and  mother's 
daughter " 

2 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

Words  failed  him  at  the  thought  of 
my  parents,  and  he  had  time  to  take 
in  a  little  more  of  me  while  I  stopped 
the  conversation  to  sell  a  paper  and 
pocket  the  nickel.  At  which  he  became 
aghast  and  told  me  so. 

And  yet  the  way  he  measured  the  gulf 
he  thought  I'd  fallen  into  from  a  pre- 
vious lofty  estate,  measured  for  me  the 
heights  to  which  I  thought  I'd  risen 
from  a  lowly  one!  So  little  do  even 
the  most  chivalrous  men  know  the  inner 
workings  of  woman's  psychology.  Only 
later,  after  I  had  explained  to  his  ex- 
asperated ears  and  he  had  left  me  to 
my  fate — since  I  would  have  none  of 
his  advice  to  return  to  "  woman's  proper 
sphere,  shedding  abroad  the  beneficent 

3 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

influence  of  the  home  " — I  thought  over 
the  pictures  he  must  have  been  carrying 
of  me  in  his  mind  all  those  years: 
To  him  I  stood  as  the  daughter  of  an 
esteemed  old  Virginia  family;  the  youth- 
ful centre  of  attention  and  gaiety;  the 
bride,  staid  and  serious  under  her  new 
responsibilities;  the  mother,  holding  a 
child  to  him  for  his  inspection,  listening 
with  bright  eyes  as  he  exclaimed:  "An- 
other Southern  gentleman  to  carry  on 
our  traditions!"  and  acquiescing. 

And  then — to  find  me  selling  papers 
on  the  street  and  drumming  up  votes 
for  women  besides!  No  wonder  it 
shocked  the  dear  old  gentleman's  finer 
sensibilities  and  outraged  all  his  pre- 
conceived ideals  of  womanhood!  Poor 
4 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

man!  He  died  a  few  months  later,  and 
I  never  saw  him  again,  so  he  never 
had  the  gleam  of  an  understanding  of 
the  true  inwardness  of  my  conversion, 
or  what  it  brought  me  to; — he  saw 
only  the  surface — bad  enough  in  all 
conscience,  according  to  his  way  of 
thinking — but  he  did  not  know  that 
the  real  change  in  me  was  so  great 
that  when  my  mind  harked  back  to 
the  days  when  he  knew  me,  those  early 
years  felt  like  another  incarnation  in 
another  world. 

That  world! — so  conventional;  so  se- 
rene; so  sheltered  and  secure;  so  good, 
as  the  world  reckons  good;  and — so 
smug.  Truly,  without  exaggeration,  I 
think  I  must  have  been  the  smuggest 

5 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

young  thing  in  Richmond,  and  every- 
body took  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that 
a  girl  in  my  position  should  be.  And 
oh,  how  beautifully  satisfied  I  was  with 
the  easy  way  of  thousands  of  my  class — 
making  a  man  and  child  happy;  and 
on  suitable,  and  strictly  conventional 
occasions,  making  happy  a  choice,  small 
circle  of  friends — "  shedding  abroad 
the  influence  of  home " — and  giving 
nothing  but  passing  thoughts  to  any- 
thing outside  my  little  fenced-in  life. 
Just  that  for  eight  blessed  years;  not 
a  sickness;  not  a  worry;  not  even  one 
small  cloud  of  domestic  misunderstand- 
ing to  dim  the  glamour ; — eight  years 
steeped  in  affection  and  appreciation 
from  the  two  I  held  most  dear.  And 
6 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 
then  within  twenty-four  hours  of  each 
other    both    husband    and    child    were 
stricken  with  scarlet  fever  in  its  worst 
form. 

The  man  died;  the  child  lived  only 
by  a  miracle.  But  little  more  than  his 
bare  life  remained  in  my  keeping,  for 
he  was  left  with  kidney  trouble  that 
developed  into  diabetes.  It  is  a  disease 
almost  invariably  fatal  to  a  child,  and 
the  doctor  warned  me  that  except  for 
a  second  miracle  the  end  was  not  far 
off. 

I  must  work  that  miracle.  Terrible 
as  it  was  to  lose  my  husband,  I  had  no 
time  for  thought  of  myself  or  for  grief. 
The  boy  claimed  all  of  me.  Every 
mouthful  of  food  he  ate  had  to  be 
7 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

especially  prepared.  It  was  prepared 
by  his  mother's  hands  and  hers  alone. 
None  other  seemed  good  enough,  or 
devoted  enough  to  touch  it.  Everything 
that  was  done  for  him,  except  his  wash- 
ing, was  done  by  me,  and  it  simply 
never  occurred  to  me  to  relieve  my 
burdens  by  calling  a  trained  nurse.  I 
bought  every  book  on  nursing  published, 
and  with  the  doctor's  help  became  an 
expert  myself.  Such  was  the  stuff  in 
me  when  put  to  the  test. 

For  more  than  two  years  I  kept  my 
boy  with  me.  I  was  nurse,  cook,  com- 
forter, entertainer,  playmate,  mother, 
rolled  into  one,  and  my  supreme  reward 
was  that  he  could  not  bear  me  out  of  his 
sight.  The  last  year  of  it  I  never  knew 
8 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

what  it  was  to  have  two  consecutive 
hours  of  rest,  and  I  rejoiced  in  my 
service  of  love  and  wished  I  might 
find  means  to  give  him  more.  My 
own  life  contained  but  a  single  object 
— my  boy's  life;  and  to  it  I  devoted 
every  waking  hour  and  my  dreams. 

She  may  expect  it  hourly  for  years, 
but  a  mother  is  never  prepared  for  the 
death  of  her  only  son — no  warning  can 
prepare  for  the  loosing  of  the  elemental 
ties;  and  during  those  years  of  nursing 
I  had  formed  no  conception  of  what 
it  would  mean  when  my  child  was  no 
longer  with  me. 

The  end  came  suddenly  at  dawn. 
Nature  found  me  numb  with  long  watch- 
9 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

ing  and  mercifully  left  me  so.  While 
the  small  wasted  body  lay  in  its  narrow 
satin  bed  there  was  still  something  for 
my  hands  to  do — flowers  to  arrange, 
little  nothings  here  and  there.  I  shed 
no  tears;  not  even  as  the  falling  earth 
drummed  the  last  roll-call  on  the  casket 
that  numbered  him  irrevocably  with  the 
shadows  of  memory.  "  Dust  to  dust — ," 
the  words  struck  no  answering  spark  in 
my  intelligence,  he  was  mine  through 
so  inalienable  a  right  to  him. 

All  was  over  and  I  was  still  numb. 
I  slept  a  drugged  sleep  that  night,  rose 
early  as  I  had  for  so  long  and  hurried 
with  my  clothes,  brushing  my  hair  with 
rapid  strokes  before  the  glass,  yet  hardly 
noticing  myself. 

10 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

A  voice  spoke :  "  Why  are  you  hurry- 
ing so?  " 

With  poised,  uplifted  arm  stopped  in 
mid-air,  my  mind  repeated  to  myself: 
"  Why  are  you  hurrying  so?  What 
have  you  to  hurry  for?  No  one  needs 
you  no<w/" 

The  brush  clattered  to  the  floor.  I 
stood  there,  petrified.  I  looked  at  my 
hands — my  empty  hands — and  the  words 
burst  from  me  aloud,  "  No  one  needs 
me  now! " 

God!  The  horror  of  that  revelation! 
It  enveloped  me  in  a  clammy  wind 
from  a  land  of  uttermost  desolation.  I 
felt  the  dew  spring  out  on  my  forehead. 
I  stared  at  my  face  in  the  glass  and 
asked  it,  "  Is  that  you? — the  wife — the 
ii 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

mother — the  woman  that  nobody  in  the 
wide  world  needs  any  more?"  and  I 
answered,  "  Nobody  in  all  this  world 
needs  my  willing  hands  to  serve;  no- 
body needs  my  love." 

Until  that  hour  hell  had  been  only 
a  word  to  me,  sin  but  little  more.  I 
had  listened,  with  somewhat  incredulous 
ears,  to  those  of  the  more  emotional 
religious  faiths  who  experienced  what 
they  called  "  the  conviction  of  sin,"  or 
"  conversion,"  and  wondered  what  they 
meant. 

I  understood  now,  for  in  that  moment 
I  experienced  a  "  conviction,"  not  of 
sin  that  could  be  atoned  for  and  laid 
aside  by  the  grace  of  God,  but  of  some- 
thing deeper  even  than  sin,  appalling 

12 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

in  its  dreariness,  irrevocable  to  the  end 
of  me — the  conviction  of  utter  useless- 
ness.  My  work  was  done,  and  I  still 
in  the  prime  of  life!  All  my  ability 
as  nurse  and  mother,  all  my  stories,  my 
songs  and  verses,  all  the  amusements,  the 
toys  I  had  learned  to  make  out  of 
paper,  all  my  gifts  of  cheer  and  com- 
fort were  no  better  than  so  much  human 
waste.  For  now  no  little  hands  would 
reach  out — "  Oh,  mamma!  Give  me!" 
— when  soldiers,  horses,  Indians  or  funny 
animals  grew  under  my  deft  scissors; 
no  little  eyes  would  sparkle  with  the 
light  of  fairyland  because  of  me.  All 
was  over. 

I    heard    myself    whisper:    "  Now    I 
know  there  is  a  hell  and  it  is  this  des- 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

olation.  Life  has  cast  me  out.  No- 
body needs  me,  and  yet  I  am  denied 
death  that  I  may  follow  my  husband 
and  son.  But  even  they  do  not  need 
me  now! " 

I  felt  as  if  I  were  sinking — or,  rather, 
I  had  a  feeling  as  if  some  deep,  sup- 
porting tide  of  inner  warmth,  will,  en- 
ergy slowly  forsook  me,  melted  out  of 
my  flesh  and  very  bones  and  oozed  away. 
It  was  like  a  subterranean  spring  whose 
existence  I  for  the  first  time  became 
conscious  of  through  its  sudden  absence. 
A  sense  of  cessation  took  possession  of 
me — the  whole  interior  machinery  of 
my  being  appeared  stopped  at  once. 
The  voice  was  right — why  should  I 
hurry?  Why  should  I  even  dress,  now 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

or  ever  again?  Why  go  through  all 
the  meaningless  antics  of  a  meaningless 
day?  Why  even  live?  Why — O  Lord! 
— let  me  not  depart  in  peace,  the  woman 
with  the  empty  hands? 

How  long  I  remained  standing  in 
this  strange  mental  condition — this  sense 
of  illumination  on  life's  austere,  un- 
mitigated meanings — I  do  not  know. 
Katie,  the  maid,  knocked.  I  heard 
without  being  able  to  tell  myself  what 
the  sound  was.  Then  she  called  my 
name  in  frightened  tones  and  asked  if 
I  were  awake. 

Awake!  I  opened  the  door  and  stared 
at  her.  She  said  breakfast  "  was  wait- 
ing this  long  time " — would  I  like  a 
tray  brought  up,  perhaps?  I  felt  her 
15 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

anxious,  sympathetic  eyes  studying  me 
from  head  to  foot.  She  had  been  with 
me  a  long  time  and  loved  me  as  much 
as  a  maid  can  love  a  mistress.  I  an- 
swered I'd  be  down  presently,  and  she 
went  away,  troubled  and  perplexed. 
She  pitied  me,  but  she  could  not  un- 
derstand; yet  in  all  that  great  city  she 
was  the  one  person  who  had  a  heartfelt 
interest  in  me,  and  she  was  nothing  of 
mine!  In  a  month  she  would  be  mar- 
ried and  go  away  with  her  man. 

The  thought  came  to  me :  "  This  is 
a  large  world  with  millions  of  people. 
How  grotesque  it  would  be  if  there  is 
no  one  in  it  who  needs  just  me.  There 
must  be  some  one,  somewhere."  The 
idea  spurred  me.  Again  I  hurried  with 
16 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

my  dressing.  I  would  find  that  some 
one  who  needed  me. 

After  I  had  eaten  I  went  out  and 
walked.  I  looked  for  young  children 
of  my  boy's  age,  but  there  seemed  to 
be  none  roaming  the  streets.  I  suppose 
they  were  in  school.  Mothers  with 
little  children  I  passed  quickly — they 
did  not  need  me. 

I  went  into  a  department  store. 
Polite  clerks  asked:  "Anything  I  can 
show  you,  madam? "  One,  I  remem- 
ber, said :  "  Here's  the  very  latest  in 
'fancy  hose — special  sale  to-day!" 

My  face  must  have  frightened  her, 
for  she  murmured  a  hasty  apology  and 
sidled  off.  They  wanted  my  money, 
not  me.  I  was  nothing  to  them;  they 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

had  their  own  lives  and  friends,  mothers 
and  sweethearts.  Millions  of  busy, 
happy  people  in  those  great  stores, 
buying  and  selling,  looking  and  pricing, 
calculating  and  desiring,  endlessly  surg- 
ing to  and  fro  in  the  search  for  things, 
but  there  was  no  tiny  corner  for  me 
in  their  intimacies. 

I  returned  to  the  street.  A  Salva- 
tion Army  lassie  passed — a  little,  aus- 
tere figure  that  seemed  to  say,  "  All 
these  things  for  which  you  people 
struggle,  surging  to  and  fro,  are  but 
vanity  of  the  flesh  and  joyless  mockery 
of  the  spirit.  Think  of  the  souls  to 
save! " 

Ah,  she  could  help  me!  She  could 
tell  me  where  to  find  some  one  who 
18 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

needed  just  me!  I  turned  and  looked 
after  her,  but  long  before  I  had  made 
up  my  mind  to  speak  she  was  out  of 
sight. 

I  passed  a  Catholic  church  and  saw 
a  woman  entering.  She  was  shabby  and 
poor  and  old.  Didn't  she  need  a 
friend?  Or  was  she  finding  all  she 
needed  behind  that  swinging  door? 
Perhaps — who  knew? — I  might  find 
something  there.  I  walked  around  the 
block  twice;  then  slowly  followed  the 
woman  into  the  hushed  silence. 

She  was  kneeling,  telling  her  beads 
before  a  picture  of  the  Mater  Dolorosa. 
I  knelt  beside  her  and  my  heart  cried 
out:  "  O  Mother  of  Sorrows,  you,  too, 
knew  the  meaning  of  empty  hands!" 

19 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

And  this  woman  beside  me  in  rusty 
widow's  weeds,  were  her  hands  empty? 
I  could  not  bear  it  and  went  out  hastily 
without  speaking. 


20 


II 

LOOKING  back  over  that  and  the  days 
immediately  following,  I  seem  to  have 
lived  in  a  sort  of  dream  of  emotional 
revelation  on  all  life's  subtler  values — 
an  unnatural  state  of  vision  in  which 
my  will  was  almost  paralysed.  I  longed 
to  talk  with  some  one  and  pour  out 
the  thoughts  seething  in  me,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  that  were  all  I  required 
to  bring  me  back  to  normal  conscious- 
ness; yet  I  could  not  force  myself  to 
speak,  and  even  the  few  friends  who 
called  to  offer  condolences  I  denied  my- 
self to.  The  shock  of  the  conviction 
21 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

that  my  work  was  done,  coming  on  me 
in  that  frightfully  sudden  way,  had 
broken  my  nerve.  With  the  supreme 
reason  for  doing  everything  swept  away 
at  a  blow,  there  seemed  no  reason  for 
doing  anything;  and  the  more  I  looked 
about  me,  the  less  I  saw  in  life  for  me. 
I  did  not  then  appreciate  that  I  was 
suffering  from  the  universal  malady  of 
all  souls  risen  above  the  plane  of  animal 
enjoyments  when  brought  face  to  face 
with  the  stern  verities  of  loss  and  grief, 
of  life  in  terms  of  the  irrevocable.  Oh, 
if  I  could  bring  back  just  one  hour  of 
the  blessed  time  when  some  one  belonged 
to  me!  Yet  with  a  whole  worldful  of 
people  I  was  as  much  alone  as  if  I  were 
the  last  woman. 

22 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

Now  for  the  first  time  I  began  to 
realise  the  loss  of  my  husband.  When 
he  died  I  felt  as  if  I  only  packed  my 
grief  up  temporarily,  as  one  lays  aside 
clothing  too  heavy  for  the  season,  but 
keeps  it  ready  to  hand  against  a  fitting 
opportunity;  for  I  had  never  wished 
my  boy  to  fall  under  the  shadow  of 
sorrow  and  had  never  put  on  mourning; 
—indeed,  I  do  not  think  he  ever  knew 
that  his  father  was  what  the  world  calls 
dead.  In  the  early  days  of  his  sickness 
nothing,  of  course,  was  said  before  the 
child;  later,  when  he  began  to  ask,  I 
told  him  that  his  father  had  been  very 
sick  and  had  had  to  take  a  long  vaca- 
tion in  a  beautiful  place  where  we 
should  some  day  join  him.  He  seemed 

23 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

happy  in  the  thought  and  eager  to  be 
"well  enough  to  go,  too,"  and  I  left 
it  that  way.  Little  by  little  the  subject 
dropped;  we  sank  into  a  quiet  sense  of 
waiting  that  needed  no  discussion  until 
the  time  came. 

Now  that  the  waiting  was  over  I  felt 
I  owed  it  as  a  wifely  duty  to  clothe 
myself  in  widow's  mourning  and  show 
the  proper  outward  signs  of  grief. 
With  this  change  came  the  tremendous 
realisation:  The  world  is  so  full  of 
widows. 

Never  had  I  dreamed  how  many  there 
were — how  many  of  us!  Everywhere — 
everywhere — all  over  the  wide  earth,  in 
all  walks  of  life — widows!  Thousands 
and  tens  of  thousands  of  us  widows! 
24 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

I  now  walked  the  streets  constantly; 
nothing  else  distracted  or  interested  me; 
and  I  was  always  watching  for  widows. 
Women  in  mourning  fascinated  me.  I 
sometimes  followed  them  for  blocks — to 
their  very  doors,  perhaps — longing  to 
speak  to  them;  to  ask  if  their  loss  had 
been  as  great  as  mine;  if  it  had  meant 
all,  all,  all  of  life,  the  curtain  dropped 
and  the  lights  out;  if  anything  had 
helped  them  bear  it  when  it  came;  if 
they  had  since  found  anything  worth 
while.  But  I  never  spoke.  Convention 
held  me  silent. 

The  world  was  so  full  of  widows: 
This  thought — or  revelation,  if  you  will 
— was  what  actually  laid  the  foundation 
for  my  becoming  a  suffragist,  because 

25 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

it  initiated  a  vital  change  in  my  whole 
mental  attitude  and  horizon.  My  out- 
look on  the  world  widened.  A  new 
appreciation  arose  in  me,  a  new  sense 
of  sisterhood  quite  distinct  from  my  pre- 
vious feelings  regarding  women.  For 
the  very  first  time  in  my  life  I  became 
conscious  of  an  idea  held  in  common 
with  other  women,  and  I  came  to  the 
realisation  of  a  class  of  women — widows 
— through  being  one  of  the  sorrowers 
myself. 

To  men,  I  fear,  this  will  seem  very 
far-fetched;  but  men  so  seldom  under- 
stand that  woman  is  by  nature  an  in- 
dividualist. She  meets  her  world  al- 
ways in  terms  of  "  you  and  me."  The 
gang  instinct  in  boys  has  but  a  feeble 
26 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

echo  in  her  school  days;  and  later,  the 
home  encases  her  with  its  multitudinous 
—and  always  individual — duties  and 
claims  to  her  attention.  Perhaps  if  she 
had  her  children  half  a  dozen  at  a  time 
she  would  get  some  idea  of  a  squad  at 
work  or  play,  of  a  group  with  common 
elements,  concerted  activities  and  aims; 
but  every  member  of  her  household 
is  of  different  age  and  must  be  met  with 
different  treatment,  often  with  different 
food,  mealtimes,  bedtimes,  clothing  and 
regulations  at  large.  Her  relations  are 
thus  all  private  and  intimate  if  she  lives 
the  average  life  of  a  woman  in  the 
average  home.  Only  the  college  women 
among  my  own  set  seem  to  develop  a 
consciousness  of  class  as  distinct  from  per- 
27 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

sons,  an  idea  of  a  body  of  people  united 
by  common  ties  and  acting  as  one. 

I  cannot  too  strongly  say  it,  that  my 
feelings  during  this  second  period — I 
call  it  "  the  widow  stage  "  of  my  evolu- 
tion— were  so  different  from  my  former 
self  up  to  the  time  my  boy  died  that  I 
noted  them  with  positive  surprise.  The 
weirdest  ideas  now  took  possession  of 
me.  If  I  saw  a  widow  who  looked  as 
if  she  had  been  one  a  long  time,  I  felt 
I  wanted  her  to  comfort  me;  or,  if  she 
seemed  to  be  fresh  to  it,  I  longed  to 
put  my  arms  around  her  and  comfort 
her.  Then  again  I  thought:  Suppose 
I  were  to  give  a  huge  reception  to 
widows  only  and  we  all  told  our  ex- 
28 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

periences;  or:  Suppose  we  formed  a 
club,  with  a  Ways  and  Means  Com- 
mittee to  take  charge  of  the  new  ones 
and  show  them  how  to  get  back  to  life 
when  three-quarters  of  them  is  buried. 
And  then  the  widows  that  have  been 
left  poor  to  struggle  with  life,  not  know- 
ing how  to  meet  it  alone — my  heart  went 
out  especially  to  them,  for  I  had  been 
left  comparatively  rich.  I  had  money 
for  the  visible  decencies  of  mourning, 
leisure  for  the  decencies  of  grief.  It 
would  be  part  of  my  new  sisterhood's 
work  to  provide  mourning  and  the 
wherewithal  for  a  little  space  of  sor- 
row's leisure  to  those  who  must  toil 
incessantly  for  bread,  with  not  an  hour 
for  the  deep  things  of  the  heart. 
29 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

Remember — the  idea  of  suffrage  never 
once  entered  my  head !  Yet  in  this  feel- 
ing of  sisterhood  I  was  slowly  preparing 
for  it,  for,  strange  though  it  may  seem, 
those  morbid,  tear-stained  days  were, 
nevertheless,  days  of  tremendous  inner 
growth,  of  quickening  of  the  spirit  by 
a  single  word,  as  new  in  my  existence 
as  if  dropped  out  of  heaven — Sisterhood. 

The  other  day  I  came  across  a  pas- 
sage in  William  James's  Memories  and 
Studies  that  expresses  what  I  mean: 

"  Some  thoughts  act  almost  like  me- 
chanical centres  of  crystallization;  facts 
cluster  of  themselves  about  them.  Such 
a  thought  was  that  of  the  gradual  growth 
of  all  things  by  natural  processes  out 
of  natural  antecedents.  Until  the  mid- 
30 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

die   of   the   nineteenth    century   no    one 
had  grasped  it  'wholesale." 

I  had  grasped  the  idea  of  women 
wholesale;  not  yet  all  women — that  was 
coming  by  a  process  of  "  crystallisa- 
tion " ;  but  a  large  class  of  women.  Nor 
had  I  submerged  the  sense  of  social 
distinctions,  so  much  keener  in  women 
than  in  men,  in  the  greater  sense  of  the 
Common  Good  of  all  women — a  sense 
so  large  and  thrilling  it  was  presently 
to  sweep  me  off  my  feet  and  carry  me, 
through  undreamed-of  emotions,  into 
undreamed-of  appreciations. 


Ill 

How  small  a  circumstance  determines 
a  life's  trend  when  the  auspicious  hour 
arrives!  My  new  trend  was  given  me 
by  four  men,  running.  They  elbowed 
me;  one  flung  me  roughly  out  of  his 
way.  A  hand  caught  me  as  I  was  fall- 
ing. A  pleasing  voice  asked,  "  Are  you 
hurt?  " 

I  thanked  the  voice,  and  looked  into 
a  pair  of  very  beautiful  grey  eyes  under 
a  fluff  of  auburn  hair. 

Next:  "  Buy  a  '  Voter'?"  asked  the 
pleasing  voice,  and  the  rescuing  hand 
held  a  paper  toward  me.  "  I'm  sure 
32 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

you're  interested  in  votes  for  women. 
This  is  our  official  organ." 

I  recoiled.  Votes  for  women!  I  "  in- 
terested "  in  the  shrieking  sisterhood? 
Heaven  forbid!  But  since  the  little  lady 
had  saved  me  a  possible  broken  bone 
or  two  by  her  prompt  action  at  a  critical 
moment,  I  was  bound  to  be  civil;  so  I 
shook  my  head  and  replied  politely: 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  interested.  I'm 
a  Virginian,  and  you  know  we  Southern 
women  are  brought  up  to  believe  a 
woman's  place  is  in  her  home.  We 
think  if  she  takes  proper  care  of  that 
and  her  husband  and  children,  she  has 
her  hands  full  enough  with  the  duties 
God  has  called  her  to." 

"  Yes,   of   course   she   has,"   admitted 

33 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

the  voice  just  as  politely,  and  I  was  given 
a  charming  smile.  "  We  believe  that 
too — if  a  woman  has  a  home.  If  she 
has  a  husband  and  children  and  work 
enough  to  occupy  her  from  morning  till 
night,  she  isn't  called  to  active  work  in 
the  suffrage  movement. 

"  But,  you  see,  thousands  of  women 
haven't  homes — not  as  you  understand 
the  word.  Their  homes  are  dark  tene- 
ments, attics,  cellars;  they  have  drunken 
husbands,  ragged  children,  and  not  even 
sufficient  food  to  feed  them.  We  feel 
called  on  to  help  those  just  because  we 
have  comfortable  homes. 

"  And  then  there  are  the  tens  of 
thousands  of  matrimonially  superfluous 
women — who  is  to  look  after  their  in- 
34 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

terests  if  they  don't  do  it  themselves? 
Did  you  know  that  in  Massachusetts 
alone  there  are  thirty  thousand  more 
women  of  marriageable  age  than  men — 
women  who  can't  have  husbands  there 
simply  because  there  aren't  husbands 
enough  to  go  round? 

"  Still,  if  your  husband  and  children 
take  all  your  time,  don't  you  see  you 
can  help  us  in  other  ways?  We  need 
every  woman  we  can  get  to  join  the 
ranks  of  those  demanding  the  suffrage." 

My  husband  and  children!  I  left  her 
hastily.  I  almost  ran  away  from  her. 
The  irony  of  my  words!  The  banality 
of  my  argument!  Parrotlike,  I  had  re- 
peated the  man-made  platitude  of  a  by- 
gone generation  on  the  "  home  and  mak- 

35 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

ing  some  good  man  happy " — I,  who 
hadn't  so  much  as  a  parrot  to  make 
happy  with  a  crust! 

I  found  myself  presently  at  the  Bat- 
tery, looking  into  the  water,  listening 
to  the  plash-plash  of  little  wavelets  tell- 
ing me  the  futility  of  my  life  and  its 
specious  arguments.  I  was  ashamed 
then  of  the  way  I  had  deceived  those 
honest  grey  eyes  and  had  let  the  little 
lady  think  me  something  other  and  bet- 
ter than  I  was — I  who  was  only  a  woman 
utterly  empty-handed  in  the  world  at 
large. 

And  why  had  I  scurried  away?  Was 
I  afraid,  or  ashamed  to  be  taken  for  a 
woman  with  an  interest  in  other  women's 
interests?  Was  it  so  much  nobler  to 

36 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

be  taken — as  I  had  allowed  myself  to 
be  taken  by  the  grey-eyed  lady — for  a 
woman  whose  only  interest  was  men? 
Or,  perhaps,  nothing  at  all!  But  what 
had  she  said  about  "  matrimonially 
superfluous  women  " — thirty  thousand? 
Impossible!  I  had  misunderstood  her 
— she  must  have  said  three  thousand. 
Why,  thirty  thousand  would  be  an  army 
— an  army  of  superfluous  women! 

The  whole  idea  of  "  superfluous " 
women  was  a  brand-new  one  to  me,  and 
after  I  recovered  from  the  sting  of  my 
personal  feelings  I  experienced  a  sense 
of  fellowship  with  women  as  a  class 
larger  than  anything  I  had  felt  before. 
Those  thirty  thousand  left-overs  some- 
how belonged  as  a  chapter  in  my  sister- 

37 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

hood  of  widows,  and  were,  oh,  so  much 
more  to  be  pitied  because  they  had  never 
known  the  blessing  of  a  good  man's  love 
and  protection. 

My  eyes  at  this  were  suddenly  opened 
to  some  aspects  of  the  world  I  had  never 
before  considered,  for  I  may  as  well 
confess  that  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart 
I  had  always  had  distinct  contempt  for 
an  old  maid.  I'd  taken  it  for  granted 
that  if  a  woman  wasn't  married  it  was 
her  own  fault — she  hadn't  made  herself 
attractive  enough  to  men  in  general  and 
one  nice  man  in  particular.  But  when 
you  have  thirty  thousand  surplus  women, 
somebody's  bound  to  get  left  out  no  mat- 
ter what  they  do. 

Then  thought  I:  If  they  simply  can't 
38 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

get  husbands  to  look  after  their  legal 
interests,  who  does  it  for  them?  Some 
other  woman's  husband,  who  doesn't 
care  a  rap  about  them  personally — or 
oughtn't  to? 

In  one  minute,  with  that  before  me, 
my  life-long  cherished  view  of  the  whole 
question  of  marrying  and  getting  in  mar- 
riage underwent  reconstruction ;  and  that 
was  the  precise  minute  when  I  began 
to  be  a  suffragist!  The  tide  of  my  mind 
flowed  on  from  sisterhood  to  votes  for 
women  as  the  natural  consequence  of 
insufficient  husbands.  For  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  appreciated  the  real  mean- 
ing of  "  Taxation  without  representa- 
tion." 

Within  another  minute  or  so  I  had 
39 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

thought  of  a  dozen  questions  to  put  to 
the  grey-eyed  girl.  I  retraced  my  steps 
faster  even  than  I  had  hurried  off,  but 
she  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  All 
through  the  neighbourhood  I  walked; 
there  was  no  one  remotely  resembling 
her. 

That  day  I  went  home  with  a  new 
interest,  a  feeling  of  zest.  My  very 
shame  at  myself  stimulated  me — it  gave 
me  something  to  do.  Next  morning  at 
the  same  hour  I  was  back  on  my  beat 
looking  for  my  suffragist,  though  with- 
out success;  but  the  more  I  thought 
of  her,  the  more  I  sought  her,  the  more 
I  felt  I  simply  must  find  her  and  ex- 
plain. 

I  am,  like  most  of  my  class  and 
40 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

breed,  a  person  of  a  good  deal  of  sin- 
gleness of  purpose  once  my  interest  is 
aroused,  and  finding  the  grey-eyed  girl 
now  became  almost  an  obsession  with 
me.  Apart  from  the  questions  I  meant 
to  ask  her,  she  appealed  to  something 
in  my  own  life  and  traditions.  I  could 
talk  with  her,  woman  to  woman,  about 
insufficient  husbands,  after  I  had  con- 
fessed to  her  that  I,  also,  was  a  super- 
fluous woman. 

For  about  two  weeks  I  industriously 
tramped  the  neighbourhood  where  I 
had  first  seen  her — it  never  occurred 
to  me  to  look  up  any  of  the  various 
suffrage  organisations  and  find  her  that 
way — and  I  finally  discovered  her  stand- 
ing on  a  soap-box!  She  was  address- 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

ing  a  small  gathering,  mostly  women 
that  seemed  to  be  of  the  better  paid 
classes,  stenographers,  cashiers,  and  so 
forth. 

I  wormed  my  way  through  the  circle, 
pushing  right  and  left,  until  I  reached 
a  place  directly  in  front  of  her.  Our 
eyes  met.  She  recognised  me,  smiled 
and  slightly  bowed,  and  went  on: 

".  .  .  You  say:  *I  am  only  one. 
One  doesn't  count';  and  so  you  don't 
enroll  with  us. 

"Oh,  friends,  every  one  does  count! 
Our  ranks  are  made  of  one  and  one, 
and  we  need  every  one. 

"Others  of  you  say:  'But  I'm  so 
busy;  it's  all  I  can  do  to  get  along 
myself.  I  have  no  time  for  anything 
42 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

outside  my  regular  work.'  Are  there 
any  here  too  busy  for  interest  in  the 
Cause,  in  the  great  woman  movement? 
We  need  numbers,  of  course,  but  still 
more  do  we  need  enthusiastic  interest, 
moral  support,  public  sentiment;  and 
you,  friends,  are  part  of  that.  There's 
work  to  be  done  for  the  world,  but  we 
can't  do  it  unless  we  have  public  sen- 
timent back  of  us  to  support  our  efforts. 
Give  your  interest,  then,  if  you  have 
no  time  for  anything  else. 

"  Oh,  my  friends,  your  help  is  needed, 
and  every  one  here  now  can  help  in 
breaking  the  way  for  the  rest  to  follow. 
We  of  this  day  and  generation  are  the 
bridge  builders  into  a  more  beautiful 
future  for  those  who  have  so  little  now. 

43 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

Our  ideals  to-day  will  be  the  realities 
of  to-morrow.  Only  let  us  work  for 
them — work  together  as  one  great  sister- 
hood, without  class  prejudice,  or  class 
distinction.  Let  us  work,  North,  South, 
East  and  West,  for  the  common  good, 
each  taking  part  in  the  woman  move- 
ment sweeping  around  the  world. 

"  Every  woman  is  needed,  the  South- 
ern gentlewoman  as  much  as  any." 
Her  eyes  were  earnestly  searching  my 
face  and  I  saw  she  was  appealing  espe- 
cially to  me;  then  she  leaned  a  little 
forward  and  spoke  directly  to  me — 
"  Oh,  my  friend,  the  cause  of  woman 
needs  you!" 

A  light  that  was  lightness  of  spirit, 
of  heart  and  of  understanding  broke 
44 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

upon  me.  I  was  needed  at  last!  Count- 
less women,  or  rather  women's  lives, 
seemed  pressing  around  me  from  all 
quarters  of  the  globe;  women  with  toil- 
worn  hands  and  aching  backs,  carry- 
ing the  burdens  of  maternity;  lives 
starved  and  weary  with  the  struggle 
for  bare  existence  on  the  planet;  lonely 
women  who  could  never  find  a  mate; 
friendless  women  and  cripples— a  vast 
sisterhood  of  all  the  women  in  the  world, 
and  I  was  one  of  them. 

Instantly  after,  I  felt  appalled  and 
ashamed  that  I  should  be  able  to  live 
at  ease  and  bemuse  myself  with  grief, 
while  hundreds  of  thousands — women 
like  me — must  work  incessantly  to  keep 
bread  in  their  mouths;  and  at  the  same 

45 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

time  I  felt  exultant  that  I  was  called  to 
help;  that  I  was  still  in  a  world  that 
could  help.  I  was  needed!  "Every 
one  was  needed,"  the  speaker  said.  I 
was  at  least  one — I  counted  for  some- 
thing. 

A  salvation  feeling  flooded  me,  lifted 
me  out  of  myself  and  carried  me  aloft 
on  its  wings.  I  can  think  of  no  other 
word  than  "  salvation  "  for  what  I  then 
experienced.  I  had  the  vivifying  sense 
of  a  changed  life. 

I  lost  count  of  time  and  flowing  words 
until  I  saw  my  little  grey-eyed  friend 
coming  toward  me  with  outstretched 
hand.  I  laid  mine  in  hers  and  said: 
"I'm  so  glad!  Use  me  any  way  you 
can." 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

She  has  told  me  since  the  tears  were 
rolling  down  my  cheeks.  I  did  not 
know  it.  She  slipped  her  arm  through 
mine  and  took  me  with  her. 


47 


IV 

I  THOUGHT  at  first  mine  was  an  ex- 
ceptional, dramatic  and  almost  acci- 
dental conversion  to  the  cause  of  woman 
suffrage.  Talking  with  other  workers 
I  have  learned  to  my  surprise  it  was 
rather  the  contrary — that  mine  was 
unique  only  in  its  extremities  of  grief 
and  realisations,  not  in  its  general  pat- 
tern, nor  in  the  fervency  with  which 
the  cause  is  embraced,  once  the  feeling 
of  the  Great  Sisterhood  of  Women  takes 
possession  of  the  imagination.  With  all 
converts  that  appeal  is  to  a  basic  in- 
stinct, 'woman's  hunger  to  be  needed; — 
48 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

an  instinct  so  profoundly  embedded  in 
the  very  fibres  of  her  being  that  with- 
out it  she  ceases  to  be  woman. 

Did  you  ever  think  of  that  instinct? — 
think  how,  back  to  the  very  dawn  of 
the  world,  woman  has  felt  herself 
needed  by  her  young?  Yes,  even  the 
beasts  of  the  field  and  the  birds  of  the 
air  feel  it  too.  And  when  in  the  dark 
recesses  of  her  mind  she  knew  her  off- 
spring needed  food  and  protection,  and 
she  responded  to  their  cries,  it  was  her 
first  conscious  recognition  of  a  relation- 
ship that  had  a  claim — a  claim  for  a 
personal  service  antedating  the  tribe, 
the  herd,  the  hunting  pack,  and  taking 
precedence  over  all  other  claims  of 
pack,  herd,  tribe,  nation,  society,  or  the 

49 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

world  at  large.  For  ages  piled  on  ages 
that  instinct  has  been  silently  growing, 
eternally  responded  to  in  woman's  na- 
ture as  it  never  has  in  man's;  and  for 
all  those  ages  that  instinct  has  been 
almost  entirely  absorbed  and  gratified 
within  the  four  walls  of  home. 

And  now  it  is  the  world  that  has 
changed,  not  woman;  for  the  plain  truth 
is  that  the  modern  home,  the  modern 
family  with  its  adjunct  schools  and 
tutors  of  every  art,  the  modern  house 
with  its  labour-saving  devices,  the  mod- 
ern industrial  community  with  its  divi- 
sion of  labour,  do  not  begin  to  use  up 
the  values  of  the  modern  woman's  life. 
While  the  simple  life  of  the  up-to-date 
apartment  has  been  releasing  volumes 
SO 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

of  energy  and  active  devotion  once  ab- 
sorbed in  the  complicated,  house-ridden 
lives  of  our  grandmothers,  present-day 
woman  with  her  higher  education  and 
her  ambition  for  self-improvement  has 
also  been  acquiring  larger  and  larger 
values  in  herself.  She  now  has  more 
to  give  and  less  to  give  it  to  in  her 
home  than  her  grandmother  in  hers. 
Her  home  labours  have  shrunk  and  her 
world  has  enlarged,  and  it  is  a  world 
with  a  good  many  things  in  it  our 
grandmothers  hardly  knew  the  names 
of — popular  magazines  and  the  daily 
news  of  everything  from  pure  milk  to 
murder,  theatres  and  symphony  con- 
certs, slums,  sweatshops,  child  labour, 
Browning  clubs,  domestic  economics, 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

the  servant  problem,  woman's  increased 
earning  capacity  and  financial  independ- 
ence. In  other  words,  ours  is  a  world 
of  far  greater  variety  of  pleasures  and 
opportunities  and  a  wider  call  to  our 
sympathies. 

But  the  change  in  myself  was,  I  think, 
much  more  than  a  change  in  point  of 
view;  it  was  an  actual  development  of 
my  psychic  nature.  ,And  this  is  true 
of  the  entire  movement.  What  we  are 
witnessing  to-day  is  a  psychological  de- 
velopment, wholesale:  a  primeval  in- 
stinct is  rising  like  a  river  out  of  its  bed 
and  overflowing  new  territory;  an  in- 
stinct that  purled  along  for  centuries  on 
the  personal  plane,  contented,  stopped 
by  the  garden  gate;  now  discontented, 
52 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

turbulently  flooding  out  into  the  broad 
highway  of  the  world.  Woman  as  a 
class  is,  as  it  were,  shifting  up  her  centre 
of  gravity;  as  a  class  she  is  entering  a 
different  plane  of  conscious  activity  and 
passing  from  the  strictly  personal  to 
the  impersonal;  from  concrete  interests 
in  material  things  to  abstract  interests 
in  ideals.  But  with  all  its  turbulence, 
it  is  at  bottom  the  fidelity  to  a  special 
tradition  lasting  through  the  events  of 
a  new  existence.  We  are  following  a 
traced  way;  we  are  living  out  our  heri- 
tage from  the  mother  instinct  of  the 
ages  —  the  desire  to  be  needed  — 
bequeathed  us  in  direct  succession 
since  mother  instinct  came  into  the 
world. 

53  « 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

Instinct! — that  is  to  me  the  magic 
word,  the  key  to  the  mystery  of  the 
whole  woman  movement;  that  is  the 
invincible,  overwhelming  force  back  of 
it  all. 

Stop  and  think  what  instinct  really 
means.  When  Nature  wants  a  job  done 
— a  big  job  like  keeping  alive  a  species 
or  populating  the  earth;  a  job  requiring 
sacrifice  and  self-effacement  and  endless 
work  and  watching — does  she  call  in 
reason,  argument,  philosophy,  art,  sci- 
ence, religion,  economics,  or  philan- 
thropy? Not  a  bit  of  it!  She  hands 
that  job  over  to  a  fundamental  instinct 
and  instinct  gets  that  job  done.  The 
hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  change  is 
a  fundamental  instinct,  for  it  will  live 
54 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

on  for  generations  through  untold  cen- 
turies after  the  natural  object  of  it  has 
disappeared. 

In  women,  the  instinct  for  service  has 
survived  a  large  part  of  the  need  for 
her  former  specialised  services  in  the 
home;  but  that  instinct  must  satisfy  it- 
self somewhere.  A  woman  will  go 
through  fire  and  water  to  give  herself 
to  what  needs  her  most;  she  will  sac- 
rifice her  comfort,  her  pleasures,  her 
ambitions,  her  beauty,  her  reputation 
and  even  her  very  life,  content  in  the 
thought  she  has  served  a  loved  one. 
Literally,  she  will  stop  at  nothing  once 
the  instinct  calls  her  to  act,  whether 
the  call  come  from  a  beloved  person, 
a  beloved  institution,  a  beloved  cause,  or 

55 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

a  beloved  ideal.  That  is  what  made 
the  suffragists  in  the  beginning;  that  is 
what  is  now  turning  them  wholesale 
into  suffragettes. 

I  know,  as  thousands  of  us  know, 
that  no  matter  what  my  social  traditions, 
or  what  my  reason  tells  me,  I  am  now 
ready  to  fight; — as  ready  as  the  serene 
old  cow  is  ready  to  gore  the  wolf 
circling  her  and  her  calf,  or  as  the  timid 
sparrow  is  ready  to  fly  at  the  snake 
crawling  toward  her  nest  and  try  to 
peck  out  his  eyes  for  him.  It  is  the 
readiness  of  millions  of  timid  mothers 
before  us.  Reason  says :  "  Fly  away 
and  save  your  own  feathers  " ;  instinct 
tells  me  to  stay  where  I  am  and  fight 
defending  the  thing  I  love,  and  talk 

56 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

about  it  afterwards — if  there's  anything 
left  of  the  enemy  when  I'm  through 
with  him!  Nor  do  I  need  to  pray  for 
courage  to  join  the  riot,  throw  stones, 
scratch  faces,  tear  clothes,  or  anything 
else  that  comes  along  in  the  course  of 
defending  my  ideals — that  courage  was 
born  in  me  as  my  woman's  heritage  of 
the  ages,  and  trained  by  every  tradi- 
tion of  my  personal  life  and  of  the 
South. 

And  here  is  the  important  point,  it 
seems  to  me,  the  men  and  the  "  antis  " 
are  missing  in  the  psychology  of  the 
present  stage  of  the  woman  movement, 
particularly  as  it  is  manifesting  in  Eng- 
land: When  driven  to  despair  of  the 
use  of  milder  methods — despair  of  argu- 

57 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

ment  with  a  wolf,  or  moral  suasion 
with  a  snake — we  start  fighting,  nerved 
and  spurred  to  it  by  one  of  the  oldest 
instincts  in  the  world — defence  of  our 
offspring  of  body  or  brain.  The  in- 
stinct has  never  changed,  for  those 
mothers  that  lacked  the  instinct  to  nour- 
ish and  protect  left  no  offspring  in  the 
world;  and  may  Heaven  defend  us  from 
the  woman  who  isn't  womanly  enough 
to  stand  up  and  fight,  regardless  of  self- 
interest,  for  the  thing  she  loves!  The 
woman  who  isn't  willing  to  isn't  a 
woman  at  all;  she's  only  an  apology 
in  petticoats. 

Realising  this   now,   I   frankly  glory 
in  being  "  a   creature   of   instinct."     It 
makes  me  feel  consciously  allied,  as  I 
58 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

never  did  before,  with  the  whole  living 
world,  one  with  its  primal  forces,  par- 
taker of  its  progress,  assistant  creator 
of  its  coming  achievements. 


59 


THE  great  procession  marked  the  half- 
way stage  between  my  being  a  suffragist 
and  a  suffragette;  it  was  to  me  the  final 
loosing  of  a  bondage  to  an  eye-service 
conventionality.  Up  to  that  time  I 
could  enthusiastically  attend  meetings 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  I  couldn't 
— no,  I  simply  could  not — go  out  into 
the  public  streets  and  exhibit  myself 
to  the  gaping  multitude.  Gracious  no! 
My  little  cherished  dignity  would  never 
allow  it!  What  would  my  friends  think 
if  they  saw  me?  I  still  cared  a  great 
deal  what  people  thought  about  me, 
60 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

even  if  I  didn't  care  a  rap  for  the 
people  who  did  the  thinking.  But  when 
my  grey-eyed  friend  said:  "Of  course 
you  must  show  yourself  with  us;  you 
must  do  your  share  in  the  open  with 
the  new  crusaders,  not  sit  back  coddling 
yourself  on  cushions  within  your  castle 
walls  while  the  rest  march  forth  afoot 
carrying  the  banner  of  progress,"  I  got 
terribly  ashamed  of  my  cowardice  and 
went  along  like  a  lamb. 

The  two  weeks  before  the  parade 
I  spent  mostly  in  screwing  my  cour- 
age up,  notch,  notch,  notch,  with  all 
the  noble  reasons  for  my  joining  in 
I  could  lay  hands  on.  Every  time  I 
quailed  at  the  picture  of  little  home- 
loving  me  afoot  in  the  middle  of  the 
61 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

street,  I  repeated  what  my  friend  had 
said,  quoted  a  text,  or  took  thought  unto 
my  forbears  that  had  fought  and  died 
for  the  cause  of  secession  in  the  South; 
— none  of  which  made  the  picture  less 
dreadful,  but  only  kept  my  mind  off 
it.  Up  to  the  last  minute  I  was  still 
inwardly  quaking  and  quailing  and 
shuddering  with  outraged  conventions, 
though  I  was  in  a  do-or-die  determi- 
nation when  our  division  gathered  at 
its  meeting-place. 

Just  a  lot  of  women  like  myself! — a 
crowd  getting  more  jammed  every  min- 
ute as  the  hall  filled,  and  every  one 
laughing,  chatting,  calling  back  and 
forth,  handclasps  and  howdy-do's  mixed 
up  together,  with  directions  for  the 
62 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

march  shooting  like  rockets  through 
the  buzz  of  voices.  Were  they  all 
quailing  inside,  too?  They  certainly 
didn't  show  it  and  no  more  would  I ! 
The  battle  was  on — die  game! 

Presently  I  became  conscious  of  a 
subtle,  vibrant  undertone  throughout  the 
room,  an  electric  thrill  in  the  words 
passing  among  us:  "  You  here?"  and 
the  sharp  reply:  "  Of  course  I'm  here! " 
Some  added:  "  Do  you  think  I'd  let 
this  slip?" 

As  my  little  grey-eyed  friend  spied 
me  and  shot  her  question  through  a 
smile,  I  shot  back:  "Of  course  I'm 
here!"  and  began  to  feel  it  wasn't  so 
dreadfully  unladylike  after  all.  In- 
deed, I  got  quite  brave  about  it 
63 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

and  told  myself  I  was  glad  I'd 
come. 

A  bugle  sounded.  Almost  pell-mell 
we  hurried  down  to  form  in  line.  The 
band  heading  our  division  struck  up; 
the  ranks  in  front  of  me  marked  time, 
swung  into  step,  marched.  Before  I 
knew  it,  I  was  marking  time  and 
moving  forward  in  the  great  proces- 
sion. 

My  heart  beat  wildly,  partly  through 
nervousness,  partly  through  the  excite- 
ment of  the  crowd  and  the  music.  For 
some  minutes,  in  front  of  the  throng 
of  strange  faces  lining  the  street  where 
we  formed,  it  seemed  as  if  I  might 
faint.  Then  we  wheeled,  rank  on  rank, 
into  Fifth  Avenue,  and  before  me,  as 
64 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

far  as  my  eye  could  reach,  stretched 
that  great  army  of  marching  women. 

With  the  first  block  on  the  Avenue 
all  my  nervousness  left  me;  verily,  I 
seemed  to  be  treading  air,  not  the  dust 
of  the  common  roadway.  With  an- 
other block  or  two,  I  seemed  to  be 
swept  entirely  out  of  myself  on  a  re- 
sistless tide  of  aspiration,  flowing  on- 
ward, ever  onward,  toward  the  ideal 
of  universal  fraternity,  its  banners  borne 
aloft  by  women's  hands. 

You  never  know  until  you  have  been 
in  it  the  tremendous  emotion  of  a  pro- 
cession marching  for  a  cause — some- 
thing never  experienced  in  ordinary  life 
that  catches  you  up  and  sweeps  you 
along  with  it,  tears  you  out  of  yourself 

65 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

and  fills  you  with  the  strength  of  hun- 
dreds. 

For  the  first  time  I  realised  the  force 
of  the  woman  movement  gaining  head- 
way all  over  the  civilised  world;  the 
sheer  mass  of  it  in  terms  of  human 
flesh  and  blood.  Nothing  could  stay 
us  now. 

"  'Twere  all  as  well  to  bid  a  cloud  to 

stand, 

Or   hold    a    running    river   with    the 
hand." 

Individuals  among  us  might  fail  and 
fall  out  of  the  procession,  but  countless 
others  were  rising  up  to  take  our  places. 
The  Cause  could  not  fail. 

I  think  one  can  never  be  quite  the 
66 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

same  again  after  such  an  experience. 
I  was  not.  Somewhere  along  the  line 
of  march  I  had  shed  the  shackles  of  con- 
vention and  left  behind  my  petty  self  and 
its  withholdings.  Thenceforth  I  felt  I 
could  withhold  nothing  from  the  Cause 
— not  ease  and  personal  comfort,  or 
money,  or  dignity,  or  even  reputation. 
The  whole  of  me  had  been  called  out 
in  a  burst;  I  felt  too  big  for  the  old 
shell.  The  old  shell  pinched  my  soul! 
And  from  that  experience,  when  we 
disbanded,  I  walked  away— a  suffra- 
gette ! 


67 


VI 

THE  event  that  made  me  admittedly 
a  suffragette  I  must  of  necessity  touch 
very  lightly  here; — enough  to  say  it  was 
a  matter  the  name  of  which  I  barely 
knew,  and  whose  meaning  in  terms  of 
a  life  to  live  I  didn't  know  at  all.  The 
case  that  converted  me  to  militancy  was 
a  girl  brought  from  my  own  State  and 
rescued,  running  away,  half-clothed, 
half-starved,  by  my  grey-eyed  friend. 
I  took  the  child  home  until  we  could 
decide  what  to  do  with  her,  and  thus 
I  heard  her  story. 

Though    I    learned    soon    enough    it 
68 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

was  the  common  one,  it  was  my  first 
glimpse  into  the  underworld.  I  walked 
the  floor  almost  the  entire  night,  boil- 
ing. Remember,  I  belonged  to  the 
"  sheltered "  classes;  I  had  been  out- 
wardly protected  as  well  as  inwardly 
from  this  knowledge,  and  when  it  came, 
it  struck  me  like  a  blow  between  the 
eyes.  Could  such  conditions  exist  in  a 
civilised  world? — in  the  same  world  in 
which  I  had  lived  secure?  Little  Min- 
nie and  my  friend  left  me  no  manner 
of  doubt  about  it — this  was  no  unusual 
thing  to  happen  to  an  unprotected  girl. 
Worse  than  that,  the  laws  of  all  the 
States  set  the  "  age  of  consent "  in  a 
girl's  'teens  and  so,  this  poverty-pinched 
mountaineer's  child,  unable  to  read  and 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

write,  younger  in  education,  intellect, 
judgment,  knowledge  of  the  world  and 
moral  sense  than  my  little  dead  son 
of  ten — and  in  my  fond  eyes  he  was 
scarcely  more  than  a  baby — this  poor 
starveling  girl  had  been  endowed  by 
law  with  the  power  to  "  consent "  to 
her  ruin,  not  knowing  what  it  meant 
then,  or  would  mean  thereafter. 

In  the  fire  of  my  indignation  two 
words  were  burnt  upon  my  brain — 
"THE  LAWS"— laws  made  by  men 
for  women  that  must  be  unmade  by 
women  for  women. 

Up   to   that  period   I   seem   to   have 

thought  very  little  in  detail  of  the  legal 

aspect  of  the  woman  movement.     I  had 

put  it  to  myself  as  "  working  for  the 

70 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

cause  of  progress,"  "  helpfulness,"  "  the 
great  sisterhood,  bettering  the  conditions 
of  all  women,"  vaguely,  and  without 
formulating  the  betterment  in  terms  of 
specific  laws  and  statutes  on  the  books. 
Now  it  suddenly  came  home  to  me  that 
if  we  were  to  better  anything  we  must 
get  right  down  to  the  laws,  and  we 
could  do  nothing  with  the  laws  until 
we  had  the  ballot.  "  Votes  for  women  " 
had  been  to  me  sort  of  halleluiah-and- 
amen.  That  night  it  took  on  a  poign- 
ant, insistent,  definite  meaning,  col- 
oured with  the  tragedy  of  a  little  ruined 
life,  better  dead  a  thousand  times  than 
living  with  the  memories  of  its  past. 

I     flamed.      Literally,     I     saw     red. 
Something  must  be  done!    We  women 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

must  stop  talking  and  act!  Fight! 
Throw  stones!  Do  anything,  it  didn't 
matter  what,  so  long  as  we  got  the  vote 
and  could  legislate  in  our  own  protec- 
tion and  the  protection  of  the  children! 

The  fury  of  that  mood  passed  off 
with  daylight,  but  its  marks  remain 
with  me  still,  and  I  am  only  one  of 
thousands  of  women  who  have  felt  the 
same  at  least  once  in  their  lives  over 
man's  injustice. 

I  admit  it  is  quite  useless  for  mere 
man  or  an  anti-suffragist  to  discuss  the 
situation  with  me  calmly;  tell  me  cold 
reasons  why  "  it  isn't  expedient  to  give 
woman  the  unrestricted  franchise,"  or 
point  out  "  what  women  haven't  yet 
done  in  the  States  where  they  do  vote, 
72 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

therefore  we  have  every  reason  to  sup- 
pose— "  and  so  on,  ad  nauseam;  not  be- 
cause I'm  deaf  to  reason,  or  opposed  to 
calm  argument  in  their  place,  but  be- 
cause when  an  instinct  boils  over  it 
sweeps  away  reasons  and  arguments  and 
rushes  into  action  along  the  open  way. 
Instinct  invariably  says:  "Do!"  And 
that  is  all  I  think  of — Do!  Do  some- 
thing, and  do  it  quickly  and  effectively. 
Let  there  be  an  end  of  shilly-shallying. 
We  militant  suffragettes  feel  we  are 
soldiers  of  the  Common  Good  of 
Woman,  and  many  of  us  have  reached 
the  place  where  we  are  ready  to  fight 
and  die  for  the  Cause,  if  our  dying  will 
help  it  one  step  forward,  as  our  ances- 
tors faced  death  and  fought  through 

73 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

the  Civil  War  or  the  Revolution  for 
causes  they  held  dearer  than  life. 

But  are  we  fighting  now,  sex  against 
sex,  woman  against  man?  At  times  it 
almost  seems  that  way ;  it  feels  that  way, 
too,  in  my  moments  of  indignation  at 
the  injustice  of  some  of  the  man-made 
laws  for  us.  I  have  what  I  certainly 
never  had  in  my  youth — a  sense  of 
opposition  to  the  entire  sex.  I  have 
grown  pugnacious,  and  only  the  mem- 
ory of  personal  loved  ones  keeps  me 
from  becoming  bitter  toward  every 
creature  with  a  vote  that  I  am  deprived 
of. 

And  yet  to  say  that  we — my  friend 
and  I  and  thousands  more  suffragettes 
like  us — no  longer  desire  domestic  life, 
74 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

that  we  wouldn't  marry  the  right  man 
if  he  properly  asked  us  to,  is  the  ab- 
surdity of  an  infantile  mind  that  doesn't 
know  what  women  are  made  of. 

Even  though  a  suffragette,  I  am  still 
a  woman  as  much  as  I  ever  was,  and 
more  so  in  some  ways.  Still,  I  must 
say  this — I  could  never  marry  again 
on  the  former  terms.  I  could  not  now 
engage  to  deliver  over  all  my  thought, 
time,  energy,  devotion,  ambition  and 
money  to  my  husband's  and  my  indi- 
vidual interests  as  I  once  did;  for  with 
the  larger  development  of  my  mind, 
the  wider  horizon  opened  to  my  view 
through  suffragism,  the  sense  of  great 
issues  and  a  closer  sisterhood,  I  can  no 
longer  regard  the  home  as  a  purely 

75 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  EMPTY  HANDS 

personal  affair  between  two  people  and 
their  offspring.  I  see  the  home  now 
as  part  of  an  immense,  complicated,  em- 
bracing whole  to  which  every  woman 
owes  a  duty;  to  which  she  is  bound  by 
high  moral  obligation  to  render  what- 
ever service  of  work  or  support  in  its 
forward  progress  she  is  able  to  give. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
on  the 


I  2     1968 

REC'D  LD    FE 

B28'68-llA(lf 

•HAY  15  1970  0( 

i 

RECEIVED 

MAyl    '/0-6PM 

«    ^^  *JL  f»*t     f^rf--            2 

Jill    1  f  1trrn  «„ 

wwt  *  3  I9/?  f(f 
BEC'DLD    AlES 

72  -3  PM  4  9 

f  C.      U   I  ffl 

LD  2!A-60m-2.'67 
(H241slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


,50  ri~-& 

U  00993 


/ 


259929 


5  •: 


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